


Enjolras Philosophe

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Discussion of Pornography, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Metaphors, Virginal Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3272714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras could not say who the manuscript belonged to, nor who had left it in the Musain after the meeting had drawn to a halt. There had been many and various pieces of paper and various pamphlets passed around the room in the heady heat of the backroom; some hand written, some printed, some torn from books. So Enjolras had no knowledge of to whom the licentious papers belonged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enjolras Philosophe

**Author's Note:**

> I have been reading various works of seditious pre-Revolutionary French literature which is somehow relevant to my MA, which has included a healthy amount of philosophical pornography. Imagining Enjolras encountering these works has been making it somewhat easier to read n bulk. Quotes have been taken from a translation of _Thérèse Philosophe_ (1748), the text with Enjolras finds himself reading.
> 
> (Also posted to my fanfic tumblr, 'phantaire'.)

Enjolras could not say who the manuscript belonged to, nor who had left it in the Musain after the meeting had drawn to a halt. There had been many and various pieces of paper and various pamphlets passed around the room in the heady heat of the backroom; some hand written, some printed, some torn from books. So Enjolras had no knowledge of to whom the licentious papers belonged. It was sat on the table top where Combeferre usually sat, flickering in the shadows of the dying candle.

He knew of it, of course. He was a student, he had it was aware of what his fellow men spoke of with lust in their hearts and radicalism in their heads. He had no interest in the former, but in the rousing motifs of the latter he knew well.

He had never seen a manuscript with his own eyes. He knew of it of course, knew of the contents within. He had no such desires of the flesh, however the call of philosophy, of the thoughts of the Enlightened was enough for him to turn the titular page of the manuscript, leaving the bare bosoms of the women engraved on the surface to the table front.

He was only aware that he was sitting down when he felt the unexpected knock of wood against the back of his knees.

He felt his face flush as he entered into the narrative flow. It was as all these pieces of literature where, as he had been led to believe. Narrated by a woman exploring her sexual appetites, and intersected with discussion of the contemporary church, of the meaning of nature and the value of self-love. His fingers shook as he turned each page, delicately, as though his very breath could betray him. That the manuscript had survived at all was a marvel, the delicate membrane of the text had been stretched thin, and there were areas which had softened, as though they had been reread on multiple occasions. Enjolras was pleased that he did not know which of his lieutenants the manuscript belonged to.

Despite its explicit narrative he found himself enraptured by the metaphysical tone, the anonymous author had clearly much thought to philosophy. Abet the philosophy of the years before the Revolution, the tone of monarchy could be felt throughout the piece. Enjolras leant in closer, as though he can transcend the vulgarity of the erotica and apply to pure reason.

It was then when the hand came down on his shoulder.

He tore his eyes from the sentence that he had reached (- _Get down on your knees my child and uncover those parts of your body which inspire God’s anger. Forget yourself and let yourself go.-_ ) when he turned to see who had witnessed his shame.

There was no true reason for his shame, but his face was still flaming burning brighter than the dying candle and it was Grantaire standing behind him. It was those dark eyes which lit up as they skimmed the text over Enjolras shoulder.

It would be the action of a guilty man to throw the manuscript to the ground – and graphic as it was, it still belonged to one of his men, it must have some worth beyond the physical – so he passively allowed the presence of Grantaire behind him.

“Oh Enjolras, what hidden depths you have,” Grantaire leant forward as though motivated by Enjolras’ continued shamed silence, and allowed his arm to rest companionably across Enjolras’ shoulders, and read aloud from the text, “Oh what a beautiful bosom! What charming tits.”

Grantaire laughed. It was low, and loud and almost sounded lewd in the flickering darkness of the Musain. Enjolras was frozen by the host puff of air against his cheek. He had never made Grantaire laugh before. It was the strangest thing to resonate within it. And similarly it stirred him back to his usual status of eloquent complacency, even if he was sure Grantaire could feel the heat through the very air between them.

With all the dignity he could muster with his fingers still hovering above the text he straightened, jostling Grantaire across his shoulders but not displacing him,

“This is a philosophical text,” his voice was quiet in the heat of the room, but steady.

Grantaire laughed again, impervious to Enjolras’ tone in a manner which Enjolras was unaccustomed. Grantaire’s presence across his shoulders grew heavier.

“It is erotic literature, I know of it–“

Enjolras huffed; Grantaire was nothing if not reliable when it came to the matters of libertine amusements, “of course you do.”

Grantaire continued as though Enjolras had not interrupted. Enjolras’ fingers shook over the page.

“- It is the only book which the Marquis De Sade thought his intellectual equal. A vile man of course, but oh,  _oh_ for the subtle unity between the obscene, the licentious and the metaphysical. A true union between the mind and the body. How is your body responding to this vigorous stimulation?”

He could have stood up. Grantaire’s positioning was not steady, leaning above Enjolras and putting his weight through the back of the chair. He could easily have displaced Grantaire by rising to his feet, leaving the literature at Grantaire’s disposal. Distancing himself from both the text, and the words of Grantaire. But both of which would be retained in his brain, no matter how far he stepped away from their physical location.

It was impossible not to look at the world anew under the circumstances of moral philosophy. What if he had left a part of himself forever within the knowledge contained within that book.

He didn’t move.

“I assure you Grantaire, that any stimulation I am gathering from this work is purely philosophical.”

He could feel Grantaire’s caught breath over his shoulder, and he could smell the stale wine on his breath. Enjolras did not indulge in such human qualities of excess when he was reminiscing on the bright future. Such a future should not be dulled by the haze wine.

Enjolras wished for wine now.

“And yet, was it not Rousseau who said that that such works of erotic philosophy were to be read with one hand? With the other free to entertain other matters, and yet it appears that both of your hands are before me on the table. Are you truly not moved Enjolras, not even by the gratuitous libertinism before you?”

Enjolras forgot how to breathe.

There was silence in the hot and heady backroom, with the darkness isolating the two of them from the turn of the world. It was as though there was nothing but the heartbeat in Enjolras’ cheeks and the movement of Grantaire’s chest against his back.

It was as though the obscenity had come to in the darkness.

It was Grantaire who broke the tense silence, who sighed and then stepped away from Enjolras and the dying candle, into the proximity of the night.

“It was not my intention to disrupt you, in truth I had thought that the backroom would be empty by this time of night, the candles are almost burnt out after all.  I was merely sent to collect Joly’ hat, he has become far too concerned with Bossuet’s latest tumble across the cobblestones to retrieve the item himself. Your presence, alone and human in this darkened room, has been as a dream, so I shall leave you to your literature, enjoy your explorations,  _Thérèse_ .”

Grantaire only looked at him for a moment, and Enjolras could neither read his expression nor look away. The blush, which had been dying down flared up again at Grantaire’s parting words, and he watched the other man take up the discarded hat – that Enjolras hadn’t even noticed, to his shame- and placed it rakishly upon his head. It did not suit him.

Grantaire tipped his hat in Enjolras’ direction before turning back into the night.

Enjolras shifted, before casting his eyes back down across the manuscript, still laid out before him. He exhaled once, loud and wet with only the candle for company and turned the page with one hand.


End file.
